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The clouds hung low, frothed by the cold December wind. Here and there, thin patches showed the ghost of a white, unwarming sun—a corpse adrift in an inverted river. Jarvis pulled his tatters close.

“How many days to summer?” he groused. A small crowd mumbled at his passing.

“If I was homeless,” one of them remarked, “I’d go south.”

Jarvis considered this sage advice—as if he’d never thought of it—and laughed. He’d grown up here; his mates were here (the few that remained). His mum was buried here.

“If I was homeless,” he said, “so would I.”

I’ve long been absent from the Friday Fictioneers, so I thought it was high time I joined in again. I think my short short skills are a bit rusty, so it will be nice to get back up to speed again.

If you’re hankering for something a bit longer, check out my other fiction, or head right for the best of the best. Or, if you’re sick of me already, click the little blue guy right up there to read other short shorts over at the Friday Fictioneers’ home base. (You won’t regret it!)